


The Shape We Take

by spinsterclaire



Series: For Imagine Claire and Jamie [18]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Black Mirror - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:34:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: An AU inspired by Black Mirror's slightly dystopian "Hang the DJ," in which a dating app pairs you up until it finds your perfect match.





	The Shape We Take

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Slip Away," by Perfume Genius. Listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EVhFTw4igw  
> Watch the "Hang the DJ" trailer here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5N_Tq1EtRQ

Jamie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp are sitting in a London restaurant—a mediocre menu, a full bar. An open kitchen emits the  _bang-clang_  of pots, the  _hiss-shh_  of steam, so that conversation at their respective tables is uncomfortably subdued. The presence of armed guards, obtrusive and disconcerting, doesn’t help either.

The heat and the booze have unsettled Jamie Fraser, who keeps tugging at his shirt collar. His Match, named Laoghaire, sits across from him. She is trying to ignore Jamie’s pit stains, spearing a sliver of squash as if she might slip through its punctured flesh, to freedom.

Claire Beauchamp is at a table nearby, similarly sweating right through her overpriced dress (purchased for this occasion). She cannot decide which is most intolerable: The heat? The damp organza? Or her own Match, Frank?

What Jamie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp do not know is that they are about to fall in love. It will take some time for them to understand the magnitude of their feelings—nights of rumination, mornings of self-reflection—but realization will finally dawn. Give them another 43 seconds, in fact, and you will see Jamie hear Claire’s laughter, look up from his plate, and think she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Even with the sweat, even with the maniacal cackle she has manufactured just for Frank.

Claire, for her part, has already clocked the red-haired man making small talk in the corner. It will take her another week to put a name to the persistent ache inside her chest.

 _Love_  (n): a dangerous human inclination that cannot be left to its own devices.

What Jamie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp  _will_ know, upon realizing their mutual affection, is that their love is against the law. Jamie is bound to Laoghaire for another 3 months, and Claire must suffer Frank’s academic ravings for another 5. Until these Expiration Dates, they cannot stray from their designated Matches, cannot act on any notions of love and lust that I have not sanctioned myself. This is how things are in the year 2032.

But, ah! Where are my manners? I ought to explain things first, introduce myself!

To a select lab-coated few, I am Radar—“Ray,” if that second syllable is too much for their overworked brains and tongues. Of course, I go by many different names, always customized to the specific likings of the world’s population. Claire, for instance, refers to me as “Uncle,” while Jamie over there prefers “Ellen.” But whatever they call me, I am the universal Love Guru, the Sex Shaman, the Marriage Magician. I am one who puts the shooting stars in their eyes, the thumpity-thump in their hearts, and the razzle-dazzle in their pants.

I should also tell you that I am not entirely human—though I have something of a consciousness (a group mind, if you will). Neither am I entirely machine, though I fit in the palm of a hand, in a purse, forever within reach and at the heart’s immediate service. I resemble one of those things…oh, what were they called? Those archaic devices from the first half of the 21st century?

iPhones, that’s it! I resemble Steve Jobs’ 5-inch prodigy, though I’m a touch slimmer around the waist. (I endured decades in a lab for this body, after all.)

Before the government put me into commission under the Global Code, love was making people do crazy things. They’d drink themselves to death and shoot up in little brother’s basement. They’d destroy happy families or fling themselves off the Golden Gate Bridge. Nasty business, love—but not anymore. Siri’s more attractive cousin has come to save the world, and its trillions of pining hearts, from loneliness.

You see, I am the Match Maker who knows you better than your own mother.

I know Jamie Fraser, Claire Beauchamp, Frank Randall, and Laoghaire McKimmie on a more-than-intimate basis. I know what makes them  _tick_ , what makes them punch walls, fuck against walls. What color would they  _paint_  walls, if they had the choice? I know that too! These preferences, quirks, and what-have-yous are broken down, calibrated, stored neatly away in my body that is  _so_  much slimmer than an iPhone.

I slurp up their souls like you slurp your granny’s spaghetti.

It’s all for their benefit, of course. With this information, I can better identify their Ultimate Match—the person who punches, fucks, and paints walls in a fashion most compatible with their own. My success rate is 99.8% (not to brag), though that comes with rounds of trial and error, years of watching my love-famished charges Couple in the name of gaining more data. You don’t find the Ultimate Match overnight. My pal data and I have infinite combinations to sift through, endless factors to consider and test—including that fickle cunt, timing.

Love is forever awaiting bail in the prison of time.

I must admit, Claire-Frank and Jamie-Laoghaire is not my best work. Claire and Frank’s intelligence, though equal, is not necessarily  _simpatico_  (I see now that his mind looks to the past, while hers is pointed towards the future). And Jamie, whose dopamine levels had shown such promising spikes when Laoghaire entered the restaurant, needs more of a challenge—someone who isn’t afraid to knock him down a peg, then pick him back up, and lift him one step higher.

I should have seen this coming from ten light years away—this sudden attraction between Mr. Fraser and Miss Beauchamp. Beautiful and smart, both. Kind, funny, stubborn, and with shared passions that range from classical music to Kuma Sutra. I understand why they’re now excusing themselves and rushing toward the toilets, little ol’ me clutched in their hands.

“Uncle,” Claire whispers, “who is that man over there?”

_With the pit stains?_

“Ellen,” Jamie says, following Claire with his eyes, “what’s the name of that lass in the red dress?”

_Her name is Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. Born 20 October 2000 in Oxford, England. Blood Type: A-positive. Occupation: Nurse. She has Coupled three times, though none of her Relationships have exceeded nine months._

“Yes, the one with the pit stains!” Claire replies, now fixing her makeup in the restroom mirror. Just by simple observation, I ascertain that there are 7 humans in this restaurant who would exhibit a positive response to the way she hisses “pit stains.” One of them happens to be Jamie Fraser.

_His name is James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser. Born 1 _May 2002_  in Edinburgh, Scotland. Blood Type: O-positive. Occupation: Carpenter. He has Coupled one time, though the Relationship did not exceed six months._

“Ellen,” Jamie says again, “is there any way to change my Expiration Date with Laoghaire?”

“Do you accept formal requests, Uncle?”

“Is it possible? That Claire and I might, well…”

“…fuck? Just, you know, have a good time with him? Put out the feelers, that sort of thing?”

“It’d be an experiment, aye? We’d try it out for one night, see where it goes.”

“My lips would be  _sealed_ , Uncle. How about it, a small taste of lovers’ free will?”

“There’s just something about her…”

“There’s just something about him…”

These kids. They’re all the same in the end. Wanting to break the rules, to doubt my judgment. But I don’t act according to my own fancies, oh no. There is a system here, a special science to my methods. I am a radar, an outstretched hand that identifies individuals who can, at the very least, cohabitate peacefully for a specific amount of time. And I can’t do that without my data. We’re a regular pair, data and I—two spouses that must cooperate if there’s any hope for happiness.

_I’m afraid I can’t do that, Claire. Despite a high probability of compatibility, Mr. Fraser is not a Match for you at this time._

_Jamie, as is stated by the Global Code, Expiration Dates are final and non-negotiable. You cannot be re-Coupled until 9:16:32 AM on 2 September 2032_.

Claire exits the bathroom, already anticipating another evening of British procedurals (Frank’s favorite) and bland missionary sex (another of Frank’s favorites). As she surrenders to this inevitable course of events, Jamie is overcome by the inevitable compulsion to approach her. They meet just before reentering the dining room. A guard watches and listens, alert.

Though Jamie stands on the high ground of making the first move, he is nervous—his sweat glands are in overdrive—but Claire’s own nervousness will soon eclipse his. The moment he says her name aloud, “ _Claire_ ,” that strange gravity takes root inside her.

“I saw you over here, and—” Jamie starts.

“I know this sounds weird, but—” Claire begins.

They look at their feet, shyly urging the other to speak first, they’ll wait, it’s all right,  _honestly_. It is Claire who finally breaks this stalemate of courtesy, reminding Jamie it was  _he_ who stopped them from returning to their Matches (she is so grateful).

 _Yes, Claire_ , I chime in,  _Frank is waiting for you. His blood pressure has increased due to your absence._

“Did you hear that, Jamie? His  _blood pressure_ ,” she teases, waving me in the air. Neither of them finds it odd that they have fallen into a first-name basis without introductions.

“How much longer d’ye think I have before he combusts?”

 _Actually,_ I tell him,  _spontaneous human combustion is not caused by high blood pressure levels._

“Right. Thanks, Ellen,” Jamie says, and his own blood pressure starts to climb (but for entirely different reasons) when Claire smiles. “What I meant to do is,” he stumbles. “What I mean is. It’s just. What I would _like_  to do is…”

Claire raises a brow. Only I can detect the earnestness of that brow, the amount of restraint she is using to keep herself from blurting, “What?  _What_  would you like to do?”

“…is to say hello,” Jamie finishes, offering the guard a darting glance.

“Oh.” Mild disappointment flashes across Claire’s face, though it disappears the moment they touch. His hand, enveloping hers for a shake. A small piece of paper, sliding into her palm and right over my screen. You see, while I was counting down trillions of Relationships in yellow digits, Jamie had written something in blue ink that started his and Claire’s.

> _Meet me at Piccadilly Circus Station, midnight._

This is against the rules, but it is not surprising. I’ve seen rogues before—men and women who try to pave their own way—just as I’ve seen guards, the Global Code enforcers, redirect them back to their designated paths. Still, such courage never fails to impress me. Even I—the universal Love Guru, the Sex Shaman, the Marriage Magician—has to admit: The will of the human heart is one not easily crossed.


End file.
